The only shade this morning was Boman's silohoutte.
Boman didn't think paying $1.00 for a shower was a good idea, so he improvises.
Upon leaving the campground, we realize why we're the only ones at the site. A dried-up opaque lake with signs that warn "DO NOT EAT MORE THAN ONE FISH EACH WEEK" isn't going to make it's way into Outdoor Magazine.
As we storm across Nevada, we almost drive off the road when we cross paths with Thunder Mountain.
Located conveniently in the middle of nowhere, this national monument was created by Frank Van Zant aka Chief Rolling Thunder - a Native American that used the white man's junk to build this small village.
"I want to leave behind a message for future generations to see that will let them know about the plight and suffering of the American Indian at the hands of the so-called civilized white settlers." - Chief Rolling Thunder
There are no rangers or tour guides or anyone for that matter. But the sound of the highway makes us feel somewhat safe.
A swing-set and teeter totter for the little ones.
A creative approach for natural interior light.
We try to find lunch in Battle Mountain, which was designated "the armpit of American" by the Washington Post back in 2001.
"The name Battle Mountain may strike the ignorant as being a place with a mischievous past, yet the land has never once seen the pain brought from warfare. The land that this town rests on has only seen the pain brought from isolation and infertility."-Chava of the Temoke Family.
Based on the above two captions, we decide to get lunch somewhere else. We find a Subway slash Gas Station. We fill up on some sweet onion chicken teriyaki while a sheep truck fills up on gas.
Skipping stones in Utah just minutes away from the Salt Flats.
Boman gets crazy on the Bonneville Speedway and smashes the Honda CRV land speed record at 153 kilometers per hour!! Little did we know we wouldn't be getting back to town the same way.
There are a few other speed demons doing well over 100 mph on this 10-mile long straightway.
Two of which are legendary race car driver John Morton and his wife, Cynthia.
Boman impresses them with his runway skills.
Potential country-rap album cover.
We hangout with the wives while their husbands fluff their feathers.
When all is clear, we fluff our own feathers with a bike race.
I won the first race, but lost the second one due to a loose chain. Our new friends wish us luck on our journey as they speed off.
Our first real problem on the trip...Boman left the lights on leaving us with a dud car battery. I call for help.
Luckily the camera battery still works. That's our car to the left.
There's nothing to the left.
And there's nothing to the right.
The Police say they couldn't find us even though we had GPS coordinates, a few flares, and a cell phone to contact once they reached the Speedway. Donuts would have been a smart addition.
We call all of the tow trucks and taxis within sixty miles.
But no love. As the flare dies, we see a storm on the horizon.
We decide to take things into our own hands, and bike back into town. It's twelves miles to the nearest street light.
Two hours later, we arrive at a gas station four miles outside of town and call for a taxi. Unfortunately, all of the taxis in Wendover are owned by the strip club and don't travel outside the city limits. So the bike ride continues another four miles down the freeway.
Our peddling stops at the first hotel we see, which is a real gem to say the least. The only restaurant that's open is inside Wendover's finest casino two more miles further down the road.
We have ourselves a gargantuan neon light feast, and call it a night...after we pose in front of our favorite brightly illuminated Photoshop masterpieces.
The only shade this morning was Boman's silohoutte.
Boman didn't think paying $1.00 for a shower was a good idea, so he improvises.
Upon leaving the campground, we realize why we're the only ones at the site. A dried-up opaque lake with signs that warn "DO NOT EAT MORE THAN ONE FISH EACH WEEK" isn't going to make it's way into Outdoor Magazine.
As we storm across Nevada, we almost drive off the road when we cross paths with Thunder Mountain.
Located conveniently in the middle of nowhere, this national monument was created by Frank Van Zant aka Chief Rolling Thunder - a Native American that used the white man's junk to build this small village.
"I want to leave behind a message for future generations to see that will let them know about the plight and suffering of the American Indian at the hands of the so-called civilized white settlers." - Chief Rolling Thunder
There are no rangers or tour guides or anyone for that matter. But the sound of the highway makes us feel somewhat safe.
A swing-set and teeter totter for the little ones.
A creative approach for natural interior light.
We try to find lunch in Battle Mountain, which was designated "the armpit of American" by the Washington Post back in 2001.
"The name Battle Mountain may strike the ignorant as being a place with a mischievous past, yet the land has never once seen the pain brought from warfare. The land that this town rests on has only seen the pain brought from isolation and infertility."-Chava of the Temoke Family.
Based on the above two captions, we decide to get lunch somewhere else. We find a Subway slash Gas Station. We fill up on some sweet onion chicken teriyaki while a sheep truck fills up on gas.
Skipping stones in Utah just minutes away from the Salt Flats.
Boman gets crazy on the Bonneville Speedway and smashes the Honda CRV land speed record at 153 kilometers per hour!! Little did we know we wouldn't be getting back to town the same way.
There are a few other speed demons doing well over 100 mph on this 10-mile long straightway.
Two of which are legendary race car driver John Morton and his wife, Cynthia.
Boman impresses them with his runway skills.
Potential country-rap album cover.
We hangout with the wives while their husbands fluff their feathers.
When all is clear, we fluff our own feathers with a bike race.
I won the first race, but lost the second one due to a loose chain. Our new friends wish us luck on our journey as they speed off.
Our first real problem on the trip...Boman left the lights on leaving us with a dud car battery. I call for help.
Luckily the camera battery still works. That's our car to the left.
There's nothing to the left.
And there's nothing to the right.
The Police say they couldn't find us even though we had GPS coordinates, a few flares, and a cell phone to contact once they reached the Speedway. Donuts would have been a smart addition.
We call all of the tow trucks and taxis within sixty miles.
But no love. As the flare dies, we see a storm on the horizon.
We decide to take things into our own hands, and bike back into town. It's twelves miles to the nearest street light.
Two hours later, we arrive at a gas station four miles outside of town and call for a taxi. Unfortunately, all of the taxis in Wendover are owned by the strip club and don't travel outside the city limits. So the bike ride continues another four miles down the freeway.
Our peddling stops at the first hotel we see, which is a real gem to say the least. The only restaurant that's open is inside Wendover's finest casino two more miles further down the road.
We have ourselves a gargantuan neon light feast, and call it a night...after we pose in front of our favorite brightly illuminated Photoshop masterpieces.
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